You are sick, thy Duke!

You are sick, thy Duke!
For with sickness we rebuke
waiting for family, we do puke.
With uncured sickness at the hand of a Duke.
The Duke, the Duke, you are sick!
For the pain is as a prick
on a torn of UN-found stick.
With the hand of the duke, you lay in bed with doth kick.
The Duke, we are dead!
For Disease that has now spread,
coming back to rotting bread.
For the black plague is reason for the cut off head.
You are sick, thy Duke!
For with sickness you can't rebuke
Waiting for family, you do puke.
For he is dead our only Duke.